“Thank you,” said Mig. “And I hope we can both take as given Miguel’s account of what really happened at Foulgate that night.”
“Oh yes. In fact, as I was about to point out, the inhabitants of Skaddale had a deal too much common sense to take as gospel anything a neighbor like Andrew Gowder asserted. Which brings me to my grandfather. His History is more concerned with the broad sweep of events and their philosophical analysis rather than domestic particularities. In the main body of his text, the incident wins no more than a passing reference. He was however one of those scholars who cannot bear that anything, once discovered, should be lost. A large proportion of his book takes the form of footnotes which are generally, I fear, much more engaging than his central argument. There is one such note here in which he says…”
He opened the book at a marked page and, using a magnifying glass, began to read a footnote in minuscule print which Mig could see occupied nearly half of a page.
“Though the present writer is only concerned with matters of broad interest in the development of the county supported by proper documentary evidence, it is often helpful to our understanding of the atmosphere of any given time and place to note the extremes of local rumor and legend, especially when as here they stand in mutual contradiction.
“One such rumor asserted that the waif boy was in fact a thirty-year-old emissary of Philip of Spain, selected because his youthful appearance might aid him to pass unchallenged, and sent to make contact with the disaffected Roman Catholics of northern England and offer financial and military assistance in any proposed rebellion. Ship-wrackt on the Cumbrian coast, he played the innocent child till such time as he might find a way to pursue his mission.
“The counter story was that the boy was truly nothing more than a gypsy by-blow, politically entirely insignificant.
“What is undisputed is that, some dispute having arisen between him and his master, possibly involving Mistress Jenny Gowder, he knocked Thomas to the ground and fled in fear. Upon which (the local gossips whispered) Andrew Gowder, the younger brother, known to be fearful lest Thomas’s marriage to a young and healthy woman should eventually produce a surviving heir and deprive his own sons of their claim on the farm, seized the opportunity to slit his brother’s throat and then pursue, capture and despatch the alleged culprit before he could speak in his own defense.
“Thus we have on one side domestic rivalry, on the other international espionage, the whole issue muddied by what some held was divine or diabolical intervention when the fugitive’s body vanished after the alleged crucifixion.
“Is it possible there may be some connection here with the recorded capture in July 1589 of a ‘Spanish emissary’ in Lancaster where he lay awaiting passage out of the country? He died under torture, though not before he had allegedly confessed to having spent some months in the North spreading sedition. Names were mentioned, but none that had not already come under the gravest suspicion. Some indeed were already held and later executed. This suggests that this ‘confession’ was in fact one of those frequently cobbled together by the interrogator (in this case the notorious pursuivant, Tyrwhitt) to cover the fact that his too vigorous approach has resulted in the death of his victim before any truly significant information could be extracted.”
He finished reading and looked up at Mig.
“It is unfortunate,” he said dryly, “that as well as sparking an interest in local history in my grandfather, the Reverend Peter also seems to have passed on his rather ponderous style. I’m sure, however, that you picked up on the significant elements here. Exculpation of your ancestor. And the reference to our mutual friend, Francis Tyrwhitt.”
Mig’s gaze met the old man’s. What a portrait this would make, he thought. The young man eager for knowledge being led forward by the old tutor intent on passing on the torch of learning which he has tended all his long years…
Load of crap, he heard a shrill Australian voice say in his mind. The old bastard’s chasing you up a gum tree. So grab your chance and piss on him!
He said, “I brought along the document this morning because I believe that returning it to its rightful owner is the only honest way to proceed. I hope that you will agree and now do the same with the document that you removed from the Jolley archive.”
Once more, just as he tried to grab the initiative, the old man slid away from him. Instead of the expected indignant denial, Dunstan’s response was a delighted, “Bravo! You’ve worked it out. But do let me hear your exquisite reasoning. I love to follow the workings of a fine mind.”
It was hard not to feel flattered.
Mig said, “It’s been clear from the start that you know a great deal more about everything than the rest of your family. It was this knowledge that made you curious to see me when Gerald was reluctant to let anyone stick their nose into Woollass family business after the visit of Liam Molloy.”
“The Irishman. Yes, I recall. Sad business.”
“Sad for him, certainly. But I asked myself two questions. The first was, why should Molloy have come here unless he felt sure there was something to find? And the second was, why should you have been so untroubled by the prospect of my visit unless you were certain there was nothing for me to find? A large part of the answer in both cases was Jolley Castle.”
Again there was no protest, just an encouraging nod.
“Molloy had been to Jolley,” Mig went on. “I think what he found there was a detailed account of the interrogation of Father Simeon and its outcome. This is what brought him first to Kendal then to Illthwaite in search of any other information he might be able to garner to add even more spice and color to his story.”
“How fascinating. But you’ve hardly had time to visit Jolley yourself to confirm the presence of this document, or even its absence,” said Dunstan.
“I’ve done better than that. Max Coldstream got Lilleywhite, the new archivist, to burrow. Alas, he could find nothing relating to Tyrwhitt’s torture of Simeon.”
“A pity. Still, it’s early days, especially with the archive in such a state of confusion,” said Dunstan consolingly.
“Confusion? I didn’t mention confusion. But of course, you’d know that because you went to see for yourself, didn’t you, Mr. Woollass? The family were happy to let accredited researchers in, thinking perhaps that their occasional efforts might impose some kind of order without the expense of hiring a professional archivist to do the job. Well, they were wrong. And now the National Trust is having to pay handsomely. But amidst all the confusion left by the Jolleys was one little island of order: a box file containing letters requesting permission to trawl through their papers. Molloy’s letter is there. And so, I learned when I talked to Max on the phone this morning, is yours, dated only a week or so after poor Molloy’s accident.”
Once more Dunstan cried, “Bravo! How well you have done. Now, let me see… yes, I’ve got it. Your conclusion is that, just as special circumstances made you feel justified in removing Father Simeon’s journal from its hiding place, so I was justified in my removal of a section of Tyrwhitt’s record. What will the world make of such a pair of pícaros?”
It was an ingenious tu quoque rejoinder which left Mig for the moment uncertain where to go.
Finally he opted for the politician’s route.
When in doubt, be indignant.
“There’s a significant difference,” he said. “In fact and in law. I have restored Simeon’s journal to the person with best claim to ownership. Whereas you…”
“Yes?”
“What have you done with the Tyrwhitt record? Burned it?”
“Good Lord. You think me such a vandal?” said Dunstan.
He even does indignation better than me, thought Mig.
“I don’t know what you may be capable of. If not burned, then you’ll certainly have taken care to hide it so well that no one will ever be able to discover it as evidence of your crime.”
This sounded so forced and bombastic even to himself t
hat he could not blame the old man for the flicker of amusement that touched his thin lips.
“Ah, the pleasures of being outraged! I remember them well though nowadays I enjoy them but rarely, having been warned by my medical advisor that undue excitation could rapidly summon me to a far more terrible judgment than any you can pass.”
Does undue excitation cover your lunchtime siestas with Mrs. Collipepper? Mig wondered. A slow smile spread across Dunstan’s face as though he heard the thought, and Mig felt himself flushing once more.
Forcing himself to speak calmly, he said, “There is no witness present and I assure you I haven’t come along equipped with a hidden recorder. So perhaps at the least you would do me the kindness of telling me what the Jolley document contained.”
“My dear young man, what do you take me for? You are as entitled to view the document as I am entitled to see the one you purloined. You’re quite right. I have hidden it, but, à la Poe, in plain view.”
He picked up a transparent protective folder from the desk.
“Here it is. Not hugely significant in the great scheme of things, in fact only of any real interest to those directly concerned, such as our two families. Take a look. I would value your opinion.”
He put the open folder into Mig’s hand.
Anyone who trumped you so effortlessly at every turn, you either had to hate or to admire, thought Mig ruefully. He hadn’t yet made up his mind.
He opened the folder and began to read.
2
Like a dingo
SAM FLOOD MOVED AT A PACE WHICH came close to being a trot down the center of the road leading from St. Ylf’s to the Stranger House.
She was a missile in search of a target but not yet able to read the code in which its program was written.
After he’d finished speaking, Swinebank had broken the eye contact maintained throughout his story, turned away, and looked down at the memorial inscription.
Sam remained stock-still for what felt like an age. She had seen the look on the man’s face before he turned. Shame had been there, and regret; but also huge relief that at last he had unburdened himself of his corrosive secret.
Deep resentment that he should be finding ease in what was causing her so much pain restored her movement in the form of an anger whose force set her body shaking.
“And that’s it?” she burst out. “Nearly half a century for your second silence, and now you’re starting in on your third?”
Swinebank turned back and looked at her helplessly.
“What more can I say? Ask me anything you like, I’ll try to answer. I’ve got no excuses to offer. Not for myself anyway. Just heartfelt apology. To you above all. And your family. And to my parishioners. I’ve let them down too. All these years they’ve felt they shared the blame for the death of the best man they ever knew. He came among us for a while but we weren’t anywhere near good enough to keep him here, that’s what they think, that’s why they clammed up when you started asking questions about someone called Sam Flood.”
Suddenly Sam was sick to death of hearing about her namesake.
“Sam Flood, saintly Sam, that’s all I ever hear from you people!” she said. “You think it was his tender bloody heart trying to cope with all the wickedness he saw that made him top himself, don’t you? Well, you’d better get disenchanted! It was a lot closer to home than that. It was catching his best mate screwing his best girl that tipped him over. Yeah, something as banal and commonplace as that. Sexual betrayal. If you’re a Latin lover, you kill them both! If you’re an English curate, you kill yourself! Either way you don’t end up getting canonized!”
She realized Swinebank was looking at her in amazement. She’d let out Edie and Thor’s secret without thinking. But so what? They were both adults, they could take it. It was time for all of Illthwaite’s sordid little secrets to see the light of day.
She went on with undiminished force.
“He was a grown man, he could make choices. It’s my gran who’s the only real victim here. She was just a kid. She got raped and nobody noticed. She got posted off like a fucking parcel to the other side of the world and nobody gave a toss. And when she got there, she got treated worse than shit, and still not a single hand was lifted to defend her. That’s what you should be feeling guilty about. I can survive living in a world where some nutty parson tops himself. It’s living in a world where what happened to kids like my gran can happen that makes me want to spew my guts!”
“I don’t understand,” said Swinebank. “What are you saying?”
He was looking bewildered, but there was something else there too.
Sam thought, I’ve given the bastard hope. He’s thinking, maybe Saint Sam’s death wasn’t his fault after all!
She forced herself to think rationally. Make sure you’ve got all the equations worked out on the board before you let go.
She said, “Why didn’t you tell anyone you’d seen Edie in Flood’s room?”
He said, “I did. I told Dunstan Woollass.”
“Woollass? Not your father?”
He laughed. There was no humor in it, a little sadness, a lot of bitterness.
“I told him the story about going out to play and having an accident. When he came to see me in the hospital next day, he told me that Sam was dead. He said he expected the police would want to interview me and he asked if I had anything else to say. I said no. That’s where my father got his ministry wrong. He made himself more terrifying than God. But after he’d gone, Mr. Woollass came to see me. It was easy talking to him, especially as he knew all about everything…”
“How? How did he know?”
“Gerry had told him. Once I realized he knew what had happened, it all came out. When I ended by saying it was me who was responsible for Sam killing himself, he was marvelous. He said there must have been things going on in Sam’s mind we didn’t know about. He said that all men have secrets they want to keep. Like me, like my secret. Some men were strong and could keep them and lead a good life even if their secret was bad. My secret wasn’t very bad, he said. I’d just been a witness. Gerry had been punished, both his father on earth and his Father in heaven had seen to that. And Pam had been taken care of. As for the Gowders, he’d deal with them. It wasn’t my secret that had made the curate kill himself. It was his own.”
“He said that?” Sam was puzzled. Intrigued too. This old guy she still hadn’t met seemed to hover over everything that went on in Illthwaite. Maybe he was indeed the heavenly as well as the earthly father! “And did he give any hint what the curate’s own secret might have been?”
Swinebank said, “He said he didn’t know, no one could truly know another man’s thoughts. But it must have had something to do with not being as good as he wanted to be, as other people thought he was. I’d told him about seeing Edie there, and he said it probably had something to do with this. Sex was one of the most pleasurable routes to hell, he said, but it got you there just the same. But now poor Sam was dead and beyond our judgment. And unless Edie herself came forward and told about her visit to the vicarage, it would be a kindness to her, and a help to Sam’s memory, for me not to say anything about it. Edie kept quiet, so I did too. God forgive me for being so weak.”
He looked so pathetic that Sam’s scornful rejoinder died in her throat. He’d been eleven years old, terrified by his father, soft-soaped by Dunstan Woollass. They were the real villains who got little Pam Galley out of their hair by parceling her off to Oz.
Swinebank was still desperate to compound confession with explanation.
He said, “I’ve tried to atone. I’ve devoted my life since to giving this parish the loving side of my faith that my father chose to ignore — ”
“You’re bringing the tears to my eyes,” interrupted Sam. “You’ll be telling me next Gerry Woollass has been devoting his life to good works too.”
“In fact, he has,” said Swinebank. “And in face of much personal grief. His wife left him, and his daughter has tur
ned her back on his faith in every way possible. If atonement isn’t possible, there’s not much point to the existence of either of us. After your revelation last night, I cannot imagine how he’s feeling now.”
“You can’t? You think the news that when he raped a kid all those years ago he not only got her pregnant but caused her death too might have put him off his breakfast?”
She glared at him, promising herself, if he says anything more about atonement I’ll nut him!
He said, “Gerry must answer for himself. No man can read another’s heart. We all must make our own decisions.”
“And what decision were you going to make if I hadn’t turned up?” she demanded. “Public confession? Even though the Gowders were putting the silencers on you again? That’s why they were here, wasn’t it?”
He said, “They are worried. They reacted. Action, reaction. That sums up the Gowders, morally, intellectually. Judging them by normal standards doesn’t work. But they’re not altogether bad.”
“That’s very Christian of you, Pete,” she said. “It’s up to you if you want to forgive them for breaking your wrist when you were a kid and shoving you around this morning to make sure you continued to keep quiet. But when it comes to forgiving them for making my gran strip and egging on Woollass to rape her, I don’t think it’s your call. Where’ve they gone now? To give Gerry Woollass a kicking to make sure he doesn’t talk?”
“I doubt it,” he said wearily. “They rely on old Dunstan to keep Gerry in order. Of course, what happens when the old man dies is something else. I think Gerry really hates them, for what they made him do…”
The Stranger House Page 36
